


all lit up and i start to smile

by sublime_jumbles



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Belly Kink, Chubby Gansey, Feeding Kink, M/M, Overeating, Sexual Tension, Stuffing, Summer Vacation, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 12:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14019828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublime_jumbles/pseuds/sublime_jumbles
Summary: There was a particular thrill to agreeing to split something with Gansey and then watching him eat far more than his share, and it made Ronan’s stomach spark with anticipation.





	all lit up and i start to smile

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt on [tumblr](http://alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody.tumblr.com/post/172017920531/ohhhh-what-about-sharing-a-dessert-and)! 
> 
> //
> 
> title from "burning pile" by mother mother.

The ice cream spoon was cold against his lips, but the rest of Ronan was hot, hot, hot. July was peaking outside, sweaty and bright as a crush, and he was flushed all over with it, sunburnt with joy.   
  
He and Gansey had decided - as they had been doing more and more often this summer - that sundaes were a sufficient lunch, and they sat across from each other in the cool blast of the ice cream parlor’s air-co, one of Ronan’s black high-tops pressing down on one of Gansey’s Top-Siders under the table.   
  
Given the choice, they both preferred gelato, but the gelato shop didn’t offer the ridiculous object of today’s quest, which was the twelve-scoop, eight-topping, two-banana split that the ice cream parlor touted as a challenge. Ronan had burned bright as a solar flare as he’d ordered it, and then brighter as he’d told her firmly that no, they didn’t want it as a challenge, they didn’t want it it timed, they just wanted to split it and that was allowed, wasn’t it?   
  
Gansey was generally opposed to food challenges, because he did not like the idea of having his name and face on display for the public to see and tweet pictures of to his mother’s political account. He did not like having attention called to his appetite, unless Ronan was doing the calling, and then he was game for almost anything.   
  
They had chosen a table in the corner near the window, and sunlight poured in to douse over Gansey as he worked on another scoop of ice cream, capped with a ruff of whipped cream. Ronan pulled his hand into a fist, then splayed it open, and Gansey caught the movement and smiled the kind of smile that told Ronan he knew exactly what mischief he was wreaking.   
  
He was wearing a bright ocean-blue polo, snug around his soft, round belly. His stomach obscured the waistband of his khaki shorts, but Ronan had seen him put these shorts on earlier, and knew exactly how taxed their button was beneath that roll of chub.   
  
“Your eyes are going to fall out of your head, Lynch,” he teased, toeing at Ronan’s shoe under the table. “See something you like?”  
  
Ronan scooped a bite of ice cream and nuts into his mouth and wrapped a smirk around it as he chewed. He nodded at Gansey’s middle. “Wondering if this sundae is gonna bust those fucking shorts.”  
  
Gansey slid a hand down his stomach, grabbing the thickest part and squishing, and Ronan curled his hand back into a fist. He intended to eat just enough of the sundae that he could make a convincing argument that he _had_ eaten some. There was a particular thrill to agreeing to split something with Gansey and then watching him eat far more than his share, and it made Ronan’s stomach spark with anticipation.   
  
“Good thing the button is hidden under all this,” said Gansey, jostling his stomach. Ronan swallowed hard. “If it pops, you’ll be the only one who knows.”  
  
Ronan scooted his chair closer to Gansey’s, the legs screeching against the scuffed linoleum floor. He knew that the heat breaking over him was probably the sun through the window, but it seemed equally likely that it was radiating from Gansey, and if that was the case, he wanted in.   
  
Gansey dipped his spoon back into the sundae bowl, and Ronan mirrored him absently, then paused with his bite halfway to his mouth in favor of watching Gansey instead. He was vibrating with the desire to touch, to kiss, to feel exactly how soft and warm and full Gansey was after the six scoops of ice cream he’d eaten so far.  
  
But there was only so much affection Ronan would allow himself to demonstrate in a public place, so he settled for watching Gansey fit the better part of a seventh scoop into his mouth and splayed a hand across his own thigh. Gansey’s thigh would be softer, he thought. Gansey’s thigh would be so wide and soft that he wouldn’t be able to fit his whole hand over the top of it. Gansey’s thighs were starting to dimple at the backs, and Ronan would know. He’d spent the last two months observing their gradual expansion and touching, touching, touching until he thought he couldn’t sink any further into Gansey’s softness.   
  
He abandoned his spoon in the bowl and rocked his chair back onto two legs. Gansey looked at him.   
  
“Are you done?”  
  
Ronan, ablaze, tossed off a shrug. “Yeah, you have the rest.”  
  
There were sparklers lining his stomach, fizzing and chattering with anticipation, with desire. He tempered the shrug with a shit-eating grin, and to his exhilaration, Gansey returned it.   
  
“As you wish,” he said, raking an eyebrow up, and Ronan’s chair dropped back onto four legs as he went tense with excitement.   
  
This kind of game had been the stuff of dreams for so long. Ronan had loved and lusted after Gansey long before they’d gotten together, two boys confessing secrets, taking tentative steps toward each other, in the amber of Virginia night, no one but the tall field grasses to hear. He’d loved Gansey when he was firm and muscled from crew, and he’d resigned his dreams of softness to imagination or the Internet, decided that planes of abs and corded shoulders weren’t so bad if they were _Gansey’s_.   
  
And then Gansey had gone away for college, and Ronan had not. And Gansey had returned for the summer with what he - sheepishly, self-deprecatingly - had called his _freshman forty_ , and every soft thought Ronan had put to bed had wasted no time in waking up again.   
  
And then Gansey’s mother had fixed him up on some sort of god-awful ass-backward diet plan, and he’d lost more than half the weight before he went back to school. Ronan had chosen to mourn it by sending Gansey the best care packages he could assemble, stuffed with chips and cookies and snack cakes and gift cards to five various eateries in Cambridge that Ronan liked the looks of: a gourmet ice cream parlor that served ice cream sandwiches on waffles; a burger joint with portions Ronan may as well have dreamed; Starbucks to feed Gansey’s Frappuccino habit; a fast-food chain that was open until all hours in case Gansey couldn’t sleep; and a steamed-bun cafe because steamed buns were soft and plump and round, and Ronan liked the idea of Gansey stuffing his face with them.   
  
And then Gansey had come home at Christmas, his lost weight gained back, and when Ronan had joined his family for the holiday, every look he’d shot at Mrs. Gansey had been spitefully smug.   
  
And then Gansey had taken Ronan up to his room and kissed him properly and let him put his hands all over him, and then Gansey had taken both of Ronan’s hands in his own and told him that he’d found something on the internet called _feedism_ , and he’d reddened and winced through saying the word, but he’d soldiered on. He’d told Ronan that he liked the weight he’d gained, that he’d been thinking about gaining a little more, and that he thought - his blush had deepened - that he might like to have Ronan feed him sometime, if Ronan was amenable to that.  
  
Ronan, roiling with electricity at hearing Gansey pronounce a word he’d only seen online, had fought the urge to blast off downstairs to raid the Ganseys’ kitchen immediately. He’d told Gansey so, and Gansey had laughed like the first shaky breath after tears and said _Stay here, I’ll go_.  
  
He’d fed Gansey until he was stuffed and boneless and moaning, and the euphoria took him alive.   
  
Now, the summer after that Christmas, they’d settled into exploring. Gansey liked overeating, and he liked not fitting into clothes, and he liked Ronan’s teasing about his weight. He did not like being too big for things that were not clothes, and he did not like anyone else talking about his weight, and he did not like overeating on days when he had things to do. Ronan himself was constantly torn between wanting to encourage Gansey to eat as much as he wanted and make sure he was happy about it, and wanting to tease him and goad him into acknowledging how big he was getting, how much he was eating. He was learning to toe the line between gentle, encouraging kink talk and shameful, disparaging kink talk, because Gansey liked all of the former and only some of the latter.  
  
“You should eat all of it,” he said now, low and humming, his high-top finding Gansey’s Top-Sider again. “God knows you don’t need any of it, you’re getting so fat. But you should eat it anyway. I know you want to.”  
  
He met Gansey’s eyes, ready to backtrack if necessary, but Gansey’s hazel eyes were wide, intent, his mouth pulled askew the way it did when something turned him on. Ronan smiled, wicked and beatific.   
  
“Eat up,” he said.   
  
Gansey ate. Ronan crackled with energy, a live wire fraying at his edges, and leaned forward to rest both elbows on the table, cataloging every detail. Gansey ate with his free hand braced against the side of his belly, and he arched his hips when he took a deep breath, and he caught Ronan’s eye whenever his tongue darted out to catch a stray drip, and the more progress he made, the more little noises he made, and the more Ronan came undone.   
  
Finally Gansey leaned back, the sundae dish scraped clean, and rested both hands on the swell of his belly. “Oh,” he said, but the word trailed off into a groan. “Oh, Ronan, I am _full_.”   
  
He raised a hand to stifle a burp, his cheeks coloring, and Ronan closed his eyes, mind going momentarily white.   
  
“No shit,” he said, when he’d recovered, and he scooted his chair closer to Gansey’s. “Ten fucking scoops of ice cream will do that to you.”  
  
Gansey tipped his head back. “Ten scoops,” he said, as if he could hardly believe it himself. He looked a little dazed despite having known exactly what he’d been getting himself into when they’d ordered. Ronan loved this naïveté, loved that even after six months of exploration, Gansey still seemed surprised by his own capacity.   
  
“I feel so heavy,” he continued. “I feel _huge_.”  
  
“You look it, too,” said Ronan, both of his hands rolling into fists. “You look so fucking good.”  
  
Gansey caught another burp in his own fist, and Ronan pressed down hard on his foot.   
  
“Stop that,” he said, and his stomach dropped to hear how close his voice was to a whine, urgent and wanting. “Just - let it out. You’re a dude, this place is busy, no one cares.” _And I want to hear it,_ he added silently, because that sounded too kinky to say aloud.   
  
Gansey blushed. “That isn’t polite.”  
  
“When the fuck have I ever cared about _polite_?”  
  
Gansey smiled, the soft accommodating smile that meant he wanted to please. Gansey was gold, beautiful and malleable, and Ronan was the kind of metal that burned on contact with air.  
  
“Touché,” said Gansey, moving his Top-Sider on top of the rubber toe of Ronan’s sneaker. “If you want me to be improper for you, I’ll do my best.”  
  
_Be improper for me_ , Ronan wanted to beg. _Be_ _improper_ with _me_.   
  
Gansey shifted in his seat and gave a delicate moan at the movement, and Ronan squealed his chair closer, his own sharp ripped-denim knee colliding with Gansey’s round tanned one. His chubby thighs narrowed slightly to chubby knees, and it pained Ronan, how sweet they were.   
  
“You okay?” asked Ronan, one hand finding Gansey’s thigh, and Gansey nodded, scrubbing a hand over his belly.   
  
“Can you get me a soda? I think it might help this settle.”  
  
Ronan squeezed the meat of his thigh before standing. “Glutton,” he said, affectionate. “You want a scoop of ice cream in it, right?”  
  
“ _Ronan_ ,” groaned Gansey, looking up through his eyelashes, but he relented after a moment. “Sure. Why not. What’s one more?”  
  
Ronan scuffed the top of Gansey’s head. “Good boy,” he said, and his heart juddered with the audacity of it all the way up to the counter, unable to believe that it had come out of his own goddamn mouth.   
  
He scowled through the transaction and all the way back to the table as he wove through customers and their children, because it was the best way he could think to mask the thrill burning through his veins. He felt wild with it, combustible, charged up with wanting and the irresistible force of being wanted back.   
  
Gansey was waiting, a knowing smirk on his lips when Ronan clapped the cup onto the table. “Thanks,” he said, and Ronan felt his scowl melt off like ice cream in sun.   
  
He watched, his heart a sunburst in his throat, as Gansey removed the lid from the cup and took several long sips, the bump of his Adam’s apple moving with each. He wanted fiercely to kiss him on the forehead, to gather him in his arms and soothe his stomach and kiss him until their lips were swollen.   
  
“Let’s go back to the car,” he said, his foot finding Gansey’s under the table. “It’s too crowded in here.”  
  
Gansey was silent for a moment, and Ronan felt the icy panic of having maybe overstepped before Gansey closed his eyes and belched, low and deep, and opened his eyes to shoot Ronan a flushed but satisfied grin.   
  
The sun swallowed Ronan whole. “Jesus, Gansey,” he said, hoarse from the burn. “I mean - _Jesus_.”  
  
Gansey looked extremely proud of himself for having reduced Ronan to ashes.   
  
“To the car?” he asked, and Ronan closed his eyes.  
  
“Jesus, yes. To the fucking car.”  
  
“Help me up?” asked Gansey, sweet as a soda float, and Ronan braced himself and hauled him up, watching Gansey steady himself stomach-first.   
  
Gansey groaned a little at the movement, but he didn’t complain, and Ronan couldn’t herd him out fast enough, eager to touch, to kiss, to _feel_.   
  
He’d parked the BMW in the shade, anticipating the sun’s fervor, and he fritzed around Gansey like a Jack Russell as they made their way over, yelping, “Backseat, backseat!” when Gansey reached for the passenger door.  
  
Gansey, obliging, slid into the cool leather of the backseat instead, and Ronan hauled ass in next to him, and in the moment after the _thunk_ of the door he’d swung closed, they looked at each other, eyes wide, silent. The gas pedal in Ronan’s heart hit the floor.   
  
Gansey was sitting with his legs spread, his stomach round and bloated beneath his polo, and Ronan slid across the seat to straddle his lap.  
  
“Hello,” said Gansey softly, touching Ronan’s lips with one finger.

Ronan’s pulse raged. He rocked his hips against Gansey’s, but Gansey spread a hand against Ronan’s chest, steadying him.

“Wait,” he said, “watch,” and he exhaled, pushing out his swollen stomach, and with a tiny _pop!_ , the button of his shorts burst off and landed in the valley where their hips met.

Ronan’s answering exhale was desperate and harsh, and he rocked his hips again, harder, pinching his eyes shut.   
  
“Aw, _goddamn_ , Gansey,” he whined, “come _on_ ,” and he shoved one hand beneath Gansey’s shirt and went in for the kiss.   
  
Ronan burned, burned, burned.   
  
He kissed Gansey like a forest fire, like a chemical blaze, like an inferno. He kissed him until they were both airless, gasping and laughing and panting, and when Ronan pulled away, Gansey was grinning.   
  
“Oh, Lynch,” he said, “I would eat ten more scoops for another kiss like that,” and Ronan, feeling wild and aflame and invincible, grinned back.   



End file.
